


unterstützen

by professortennant



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Post-Episode 105, Support, Two idiots in love nothing to see here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25767337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Carefully, quietly, he listens as the others press her for answers about The Traveler, about her faith, about what it means. Big questions in a too big world and she looks impossibly, heart-wrenchingly small sitting before them amidst the colorful pastel palette of pancakes and scones and pastries, wringing her hands and struggling to give them answers.(Or, Caleb offers comfort to Jester after the M9 questions her about the Traveler. Post-ep for 105.)
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 5
Kudos: 132





	unterstützen

He’s a weak man—he knows this. The hunger for power, the drive to serve his country, the flow of magic in his veins, his desire and hubris to change timelines and bend the fractals of time to his will; all weaknesses, temptations.

Jester Lavorre’s tears is an unexpected weakness. 

Carefully, quietly, he listens as the others press her for answers about The Traveler, about her faith, about what it means. Big questions in a too big world and she looks impossibly, heart-wrenchingly small sitting before them amidst the colorful pastel palette of pancakes and scones and pastries, wringing her hands and struggling to give them answers.

His own beliefs on the The Traveler don’t matter. The fey creature was there for Jester when no one else was, provided her comfort and companionship in a solitary bedroom. He can’t begrudge the creature that; will always be thankful someone was looking out for her.

(If-- _when_ \--he masters the strings of time, he will fix this for her, ensure a childhood filled with companionship and adventure and love. No dancing alone in her bedroom, a ruby prison, with nothing but an arch fey and her imagination to keep her company.)

What matters is Jester: teary-eyed and uncertain for perhaps the first time in a long while, desperate to find the words—the right words—that will appease herself, her god, and her friends.

It’s easy to sit stoically beside her, a wall of solid warmth and support, arms crossed over his chest, listening quietly. All he has to offer are soft, short rebukes to his found family, reminders that Jester is sad _now_ , that it is not so easy to cut the ties that bind us—especially the ties formed in our lowest, most desperate times of loneliness and solitude. 

He understands that all too well. Veth had found him at his lowest point, the Mighty Nein not long after. They had built each other up, forged each other in bonds of friendship and family. Ties not so easily cut, not so easy to walk away from.

Jester, though, larger than life and full of laughter and chaos and mischief, shrinks under their probing, cheeks slick with tears and eyes watering with uncertainty and loss. 

“I think that’s enough for one night,” he interjects, a warning glance to Beau and Fjord. He knows how much they also care for the blue tiefling before them. They should know, too, how important their support is to her. 

Fjord nods slowly, reluctant to let it go. Beau tilts her head at him and he flushes with embarrassment, knows she’s seeing what he’s tried so hard to hide from everyone, but doesn’t drop her gaze. Eventually, she, too, nods and stands, brushing the dirt from her backside and places a comforting hand on Jester’s shoulder. 

“We’ll figure it out, Jes. We always do.” 

Jester covers the hand on her shoulder and sniffles through her smile. “Thanks, Beau.”

The monk winks, squeezing Jester’s shoulder once, before cracking her knuckles and popping her joints loudly making Caduceus shudder. “Let’s get some shut eye before we go pop pop the fuck out of guacamole’s ass, okay?”

It breaks the tension, Yasha shaking her head softly in fond amusement and Veth turning a vengeful, gleeful tone towards Beau and Fjord as they discuss strategies for the following morning. Caleb barely hears Caduceus’ deep, concerned voice trail after Beau, “You know, Miss Beau, I have a tea that can help with joint inflammation…”

Beside him, Jester wipes at her face hastily, erasing evidence of any tears, her shoulders releasing the tension held in them during the group’s inquiries. She seems to reblossom out from under the pressure of the Mighty Nein’s inquisition. 

It’s now, just the two of them, that he feels comfortable speaking more frankly, more directly. It was better this way, away from the prying, watchful eyes of Veth and Caduceus, away from the knowing eyes of Yasha who had already guessed the secret he had so desperately tried to hide. 

He sighs softly to himself and grabs the pastry from the picnic spread in front of them. 

There was a time—he thinks, at least—when he was stronger than this, steelier than this; buried and barricaded by walls of flame and numb to the world around him.

Jester Lavorre and her tears (and her laughter and kindness and playfulness and chaos and—) have broken through, torn them down. 

He shifts his weight to settle beside her a little closer, one leg outstretched and the other folded—the perfect picture of casual.

Wordlessly, he hands her the flaky, sweet pastry with a simple, soft, “Eat. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Their fingers brush as she takes the pastry from him and warmth floods through his chest, spreading to his fingertips. A warmth that has nothing to do with the low-burning fire in front of them or the source of arcane fire that constantly flows through his veins. 

This heat belongs directly to her.

The shocked, delighted gasp is more powerful than any transmutation stone has has in his possession, the sound instantly sending a thrill through him; a tiny shockwave that he still has the capacity to bring someone like Jester a little joy. 

“Caleb! How did you—But, I-I didn’t conjure these..” The half-formed question dies on her lips as she sniffs through the last of her tears and turns wide, grateful eyes onto him. 

The bear claw in her hand is packed with molasses sugar and fragrant cinnamon.

A Nicodranian bear claw.

It really shouldn’t cause him so much happiness to see her sink her teeth into the soft, sweet pastry, groaning with pleasure. But it was the least—truly the least—bit of comfort he could offer her now.

He rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling his hair lightly, ducking his head. “ _Ja,_ I know you didn’t. I did. You worry too much about what others want, _liebling_.”

The Zemnian term of endearment slips from his lips easier and faster, the memory of Jester speaking his home language only a few hours ago, sharp in his mind. He wondered if it would be asking too much, hoping too much, that she would want to experience Tongues once more, to converse with him in his own language where he could speak more freely without searching for the right Common word. 

Jester bites her lip, swallowing the bite of pastry, and picking at the flakes of icing and filing in the pastry. Her eyes are dark, unusually turned away from him and it takes every inch of earned willpower to not reach for her and tilt her chin towards him so he can see what she’s thinking.

But the flash of heavy emotion is gone from her face in an instant as the Jester that they all know—bubbly and bright and cunning—meets his gaze. The moment has passed, the facade, the mask, is back.

She bats her eyelashes at him in the way he knows she’s read about in her books. 

“Then I’m glad you’re looking out for what I want, Caleb,” she teases. He thinks it’s meant to be silly and flirtatious, a joke. 

But he hears her breath catch, the look in her eyes soften a little—a glimpse behind the mask. This small kindness, this small act of care, is enough to bring it about. He feels as though he doesn’t deserve it.

It should take more work and effort to keep her happy than pastries. She deserved more. 

His hands clench at his side, curled into tight fists to keep himself from reaching out to her. That would be one step too far than what he’s allowed.

“ _Ja_ , well, I’m not much—squishy wizard, you know—“ She smiles at the moniker she’d gifted him so long ago. “But you’ve always got me—all of us,” he hastily corrects, cheeks tinging pink. 

Jester looks down at the small offering in her hand, thinks of the warmth of the wizard beside her, his easy smile and steady presence. His words made her feel reassured and safe, not dissimilar from the way The Traveler made her feel and she suddenly longed for Caleb to wrap his arms around her and drape himself over her shoulders to complete the likeness, to ground her to this moment.

Instead, she adjusts her position on the blanket beside him, slides a little closer to Caleb, knees just brushing. 

“Thank you, Caleb.”

He hums in acknowledgment, letting the lapping of the water against the boat and the gentle murmurs of their group lull them into a kind of quiet peace—not pushing, not prying, just there. 

The events of the day, the emotional toll of a faith shaken and questioned, the heavy brick of pastries and sweets sitting in her stomach all culminate in a wide yawn and drooping eyes. 

Beside her, Caleb is so warm and solid and she’s _tired_ of sleeping on the ground. She’s _tired_ of holding herself up, of being strong. In the low light of the cove, Jester sneaks glances from the corner of her eye, taking in the lean, sharp features of Caleb’s profile: sharp nose, soft lips, keen eyes, and—she stifled a giggle—the cutest chin dimple she’s ever seen.

Caleb, despite his own opinion, was strong.

He could hold her up—just for tonight. She was so _tired._

Tentatively, breath held, she leaned her head against his shoulder, cheek pressed agains the warm wool and fabric of his wizard’s jacket. He smelled good—parchment and ink and smoke, heady and warm. 

She could feel him go still, shoulders tensing, a breath sucked in. 

“Is this okay?”

A beat of silence and then: “If it’s what you need, blueberry. Ja, it’s okay.”

He relaxed, then, going soft and squishy like her very own personal arcane pillow. Her eyes stung with the aftermath burn of tears shed and her heart and head felt heavy: anxious at the prospects of tomorrow’s pending confrontation, uncertain where her faith now settled, desperate and worried to keep her word to her friends that no harm would come to them.

Her heart raced with panic and she felt sick, too many emotions rolling in her stomach alongside the abundance of sweets consumed, it was too much, too much—

And then the bristle of beard scratched along her forehead as Caleb rested his chin atop her head, his lips just brushing her skin. “ _Breathe.”_

She took in a deep, shuddering breath, focusing on Caleb’s command, the feel of him solid and warm against her, his scratchy beard burning her skin. Air—cool and clean and salty—flooded her lungs, her mind emptying, her stomach settling.

“Thank you,” she murmured, turning her head further into the warmth of his coat, grounding herself to him, familiarizing herself with the little details of her wizard that she had not yet given herself time or allowance to consider. 

Caleb’s fingers brushed along the outside of her hip—by accident, she was sure—as he adjusted his body to fit hers, to be what she needed him to be. It distracted her, sent her reeling, let her mind wander with possibilities of a future after Rumblecusp where they could be like this in the soft bed back at the Chateau, alone, walls between them down, open and honest and.…

And then he was there once more, solid and steady and _there._

“I told you,” he hummed, lips brushing the crown of her head, ruffling her hair. The timbre of his voice wrapped around her, keeping her as safe as one of his spells. “I am here for you, Jester. Always.”

It was exactly what she needed to hear, one last affirmation. 

It didn’t matter if the ground beneath her feet was shaky and shifting, if the future was uncertain, if her _faith_ was uncertain. This—Caleb warm and solid and supportive beside her—was certain.

It was enough.

Closing her eyes, relaxing her weight against him, trusting him to hold her up strong and steady, she slept.

**Author's Note:**

> look titles are hard and google told me unterstützen was german for supportive so idk


End file.
